Inkson
by Dying Rose on The Vine
Summary: The book has ended. Inkdeath's final words quiver in the air...but as we know now, a closed and finish book continues to tell its tale -Inkdeath Spoiler Alert-
1. Orpheus

**Inkson**

**Author's note**: I wrote this in school- isn't that exciting! This'll end up as a one-shot if I don't hear from my readers, but I do want to finish it so... It is all up to you, my readers.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything Inky or related of ink.

-- --- ------------------------ ----------------------------------- ------- -----

Orpheus

A girl, small in stature, laid in bed reading the very final pages of Inkdeath, with a single thought vibrating in her brain.

Orpheus.

He was off to unknown parts, with nothing but his clothes on his back, three simple books, and an obedient Glassman. Will he freeze to death like Elinor wanted? Will he succumb to the mountains harsh terrain, or be eaten my unwritten monstrous mountain animals?

Orpheus.

Tears squinted out the corners of her eyes as she finished the very final page of the very final chapter. So it was a happy ever after for Bluejay, the bookbinder, the Father of two. Two- he had a son now. A son not made out of flesh but ink, words. Inky, inky words that Orpheus controlled with his smooth tongue and delicate heart.

Oh, Orpheus, the girl thought, bringing the book to her bosom, I'll write for you. My words would be just as powerful, if not more then the aging Fenoglio- so what if it is his world? An aged man could not control a world so young for long. Her and Orpheus, how delightful! What a thought. And once they were finished conquering Inkworld, they would take their prizes and treasures, and he'd read them all into Abarat…

Yes, she continued to muse, Orpheus would like Abarat; he would like it very much. His eyes would sparkle with glee behind his rounded glasses like a man reborn, not a ragged man running away to the mountains.

Poor Orpheus, she hoped he'd have enough sense to at least reconsider his stupid decisions and go to where the wife of the late Adderhead reigned. Yes, he was loyal to the Adder, he could even read him back, like Meggie and Fenoglio did Cosmo- it wasn't hard to read someone heartless into the world. No, not at all, the old man found that out. She liked him, but then again, she liked every character breathed into that world, but none as much as Orpheus.

Oh, she had like Dustfinger the best at one time, and when he died, she cried puddles. But when he came back to life, he had lost something...something he gained back later in the book, but her heart had already moved on...

Orpheus, with his hair so pale that it blended into his round childish face earning him the named Cheese-head, Moon-Face. But the girl throught he deserved to be called Silvertongue…And maybe Mo could have advanced to Goldtongue, though that sounded garish. No, old Four-Eye's deserved better then an ending in the cold unknown unwritten mountains- that itself was worse then death! She didn't even know if she should mourn, though, as she slowly put the book down to the floor beside her bed, she thought Meggie had made a foolish mistake in splitting off with Farid like that…he was a powerful enemy to have. Fire was a powerful enemy.

The girl changed her mind, and picked the book back up. She clenched it again to her self and thought of nothing but Orpheus.

He truly deserved that name. But she wondered what his real name was, and what his favorite time of day was, and what he feared, and what she would tell him when she saw him- if she saw him, though that thought didn't penetrate her mind. He was just a character in a book, and she didn't have that ability that made the man so special. So very special. If only the author had kept it to herself…Orpheus' awful childhood. Not being able to read books when ever you wanted. That was just awful! Just…awful…

She fell asleep, the book loosely held against her. Her dreams had nothing to do with Orpheus, but the first thing she thought when she woke the next day was him, and all the amazing thing she and her words could do for him.


	2. The Unwritten North

Inkson

Author's Note: I still can't believe its over, as you can plainly tell.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Inkheart-spell-blood-death related, unless you count the ones glistening on my bookshelf that is.

**Ah me! For aught that ever I could read,**

**Could ever hear by tale or history,**

**The course of true love never did run smooth.**

Midsummer Night's dream, William Shakespeare

-------------------- ------------------ -------------- --------

The Unwritten North

Orpheus realized this was a bad idea on the third night when he was down to just a single piece of parchment. And to make matter worse, he stumbled on the jagged rocks that stuck up like teeth on the entrance of the cave. Orpheus fell down upon rocks smashing Ironstone and spilling what was left of his ink. Oh, there was some left, but nothing was left of Ironstone.

Yes, this was a very bad idea. He was cold, even in the rich furs he had read himself on the first night, and hungry but he'd dare not eat anything. He had little left. It was too far to go back, and too dangerous to go forward. He hunched down in the corner of the shallow cave, his knee bleeding, like a child.

And like a child bemoaning his luck after getting sent to his bedroom without supper, he thought about all what happen. This damned ungrateful book! He gave it back Dustfinger, didn't he? He even brought him back to the death, and helped (in his mind) give a magnificent end to the Adderhead, and this is the reward he was given- to die in this cold cave just because the author was too lazy to write about what was out here.

These thought brought tears to Orpheus' eyes, he took off his glasses and wiped his eyes quickly, as though someone was there to see him cry. But no one was there; he was going to die alone in this damn cave. _Well, I might as well light a fire_, He thought, _No point in dying in the dark._

He picked up his last piece of parchment and his last sharpen quill, and went to go grab the almost empty inkpot when a thought struck his mind so hard it made him dizzy with delight and stupidity. Why hadn't he thought of that before!?

Out here, there where no words. That old man didn't write anything about the wild out here, other then everyone avoided it because it was filled with nameless monsters and giants…nameless. Orpheus was going to give them names. He quickly dipped the quill in the well and started to write…

He wrote, and wrote- tiny and close together, making every inch of the parchment worth its weight in gold. Once he finished writing, he exhaled heavily, he didn't dare breath. If he would, it felt as though some of the magic would have gone. He looked down at his quick scrawl. Yes…that would do just fine. He rubbed behind his glasses, before repositioning them on his face, and began to read.

He could feel it. Words hooking on to each other like children playing Red Rover, only this time, no one would break his words. They flew out of him like birds from a cage, and soon he was finished. And scared. Orpheus realized he was scared. What if it hadn't worked.

Tentatively, careful to step around the rocks that caused him so much misery earlier, he stepped out side the cave, and the sight of what he had done took his breath away.

What was once snowy and unwalkable, for a blizzard had covered the land quickly with heavy dense snow, was now a field, with billowing flowers and a sparkling spring. And the trees he read too where there, taller then the ones in the Wayless wood, with bark that peeled off like rolls of parchment, and leaves as big as dinner plates. Dripping ink instead of sap, and stood like soldiers, awaiting their creator's arrival.

Orpheus laughed louder then he ever had in his entire life. This was his story now. His world. He'd get his revenge, yes, on all of them, just as soon as he got a drink. What was the point of revenge if you were too old to take it? The idea had brought him down that road, what if he, like the Adderhead, was immortal? Yes, that idea sat well with Orpheus. He moved as fast as his fatigue ridden body would allow down the slopping hill into the valley he created.

And what a valley it was! It was just like he described it! Warm, sunlight streaming in only when the massive leaves would allow it. Warm and dark, with only the sounds of the prism like glassmen that hid in the tall blades of grass, and the bubbling spring set in a bed of gold sand. A spring that granted both eternal life and youth.

He crouched down; drinking from the spring he had created. He was so thirsty; he didn't realize that until he took the first sip. Yes, he could feel it already. The water was warmer and tastier going down his throat than any wine.

He sat back on his new grass, it wasn't as soft as he hoped, but oh well. That wasn't very important. Orpheus looked around, greedily and giddy, his head spinning. He could hear the glassmen rustling in the blades, just out of sight. His stomach gave a painful jab.

Orpheus neglected to write himself a feast! Yes a feast and he's make himself a Kingdom- why hadn't he done that in the first place? A Kingdom, full of people who were loyal only to him! And then, with his men-at-arms, he'd take Ombra and the Land of Silver…

He smiled. Orpheus would get revenge on that wretched bookbinder and his winch of a daughter, and that fat woman and that owled eyed man of hers, and the bookbinder's wife, and- _What a list of enemies, you have!_ Orpheus sang to himself within his head, _You'll need an army of ten thousand men- at least._ _With armor that gleams so brightly it would blind them, each and every one of them!_

Dustfinger. How could he? It still made his heart ache at the thought of him. He'd have to think of something special for him. Orpheus looked around his newly created valley. What would he write first? There was so much to do!

Another idea. He seemed to be full of them today. He would write that out. Yes, that's what he would do…just as soon as he got the energy to get back up. He had never felt more content in his entire life. With thought of revenge dancing in his mind.


	3. Bookbinder's Son

Inkson

Author's note: By time I wrote this chapter up, I had taken Inkdeath back to the library. I write these next chapters now because I finally bought Inkdeath myself and have taken to re-reading it until I know it by heart. Sorry for the inconvenient and the long wait.

Reply to Faust XI: Thanks for the first review! I'll be sure to keep up the good work- Oh yes, give a megalomaniac everything he needs to take control; he'd better go crazy with power!

Reply to ink0and0paper: Thank you ^-^ And so did I!

Reply to nabbi: The update wasn't all that soon, but I got it up. Not that it awnsers your questions any- Haha! They'll come! And thank you so much for the reviews and compliment- read on please!

Reply to lyncsbabe: Thanks!

Reply to Whatsthenews: And write more I shall- I think Orpheus is fully capable of writing without it, but he was leaning heavily on it- Thanks for the review and read on!

Disclaimer: This writer would like to express that she does not own anything Inky.

Children are all foreigners.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

-------------- ------------------- -----------------

The Bookbinder's Son

"Higher!" Meggie called up to the tree. She was smiling so widely that her cheeks were hurting. Doria nodded, and climbed higher up the tree as nimble as a squirrel with only one hand; in the other he held that little wooden airplane he had made just as Meggie had described it.

The other test flight had all resulted in crashing, so this time; Doria found the tallest tree that was closest to the field, and climbed as high as he could. With this set determination on his face, he held on to the tree and chucked the little wooden airplane as hard as he could. Meggie cheered down below, as the little wooden marvel took off like a flat winged sparrow and glided across the sky in a straight line.

Meggie shouted something from down below and chased after the airplane.

"Wait up!" Doria cried, sliding down the tree as quick as he could. By the time his feet hit the ground, she had all ready disappeared into the bushes, her golden haired head bobbling in the sun. What distance it got! Doria felt a sense of pride welt up within him, if he could do this, what else could he make from Meggie's world? Maybe he could try some of those horseless carriages she spoke about.

Meggie bent down, out of Doria's sight, in the bushes as the plane landed neatly in the grass. She was out of breath from running and laughing at the same time. Her brown dress got caught amongst the thorns and bristles of the berry bush but she took no notice, the one thing she did notice were the feet in front of the plane.

She looked up at the owner of the feet. Dustfinger. He stood over her with a grim look on his face. Even without his scars, he could still manage to look like the grimiest messenger of all. She supposed his red and black fire-dancer outfit didn't help manners any. Doria tore through the bushes just then, "Meggie?"

He was stopped upon the sight of Dustfinger, confusion on his face. What was Dustfinger doing here? He held a hand out to Meggie in the silence.

"What is it, Dustfinger?" She asked, taking his hand and helping herself up. Her voice full of concern, and so was her face. That was one thing Doria like about her; you could always see the worry on that beautiful face of hers.

"Come with me," Dustfinger replied forbiddingly, turning about without another word and started back up the hill that led to the lonely stone farm house. Meggie glanced anxiously at Doria, who squeezed her hand reassuringly. They trudged up the hill in silence.

When they came to the foot of the hill, where the old farm house hid from the rest of the world, Dustfinger looked back at them, finally. He gave them a crinkled smile, "You two look like the sky is falling, and here I though you wanted to see your new brother-."

Meggie's eyes went wide, the look of anxiousness washed off her face, like dirty clothes in a stream, replacing it with a look of excitement. She detangled herself from Doria's grasp and took off down the path to her home, running with abandoned, her golden locks following after her. Doria sighed longingly, and followed. Dustfinger continued to walk after them at his own pace.

So Silvertongue's daughter's love burned for another, leaving Farid out like white ashes in a fire pit. Dustfinger missed the boy, he missed him as much as he did when he found himself back again in his world, only this time, Farid was here, but where? The lad didn't even say goodbye this time- he just left…It reminded him of himself. So this must've been what it felt like, the other end of the burn.

It was hard to feel jubilation about the new Folchart when you were missing some one you care about; it was like the boy took a part of him with him. _Stop it, Dustfinger,_ He told himself, _If the boy is so much like you, he'll leave, he'll come back. Just like you did. Do_. He clambered to the house.

By the time he slipped inside the secluded farm house, Meggie and Doria had joined the group as though they were there all along, taking turns to get a glance at the new born babe. Roxana was cleaning up from the bloody mess of birth. She looked exhausted but the sight of her brought a happy smile to Dustfinger's face. Birds sang outside.

Dustfinger slipped into the room like a shadow, Silvertongue's shadow. That's what they called him these days. He could still feel the man's thoughts, although the connection grew weaker and weaker every day. They were like murmurs, whispers- shadows in the background of his mind. Silvertongue glanced up at Dustfinger, before looking down at his new child. It had his hair, eyes shut, so small as his mother cuddled him.

"What are we going to name him?" Meggie asked in a low tone, as if she spoke any louder she'd break the baby. Doria took a hold of Meggie tenderly, making Meggie blush madly. Dustfinger smiled, the boy probably had marriage on his mind. He wondered how Mo would take to it, when the yet-to-be-named child started to cry.

"Out, out!" Roxana ordered curtly, lifting the bucket of water up, shooing an indigent looking Elinor and company out, "She doesn't need on-lookers gathered around her bed as if she were dying, out!"

They did as they were told, though Elinor didn't do it quietly. For once they were in the living room and Roxana outside dumping water, she expressed her dissatisfaction at being ushered out from her own niece's bedroom in a particularly foul-mouth mannered.

Meggie ignored her, looking at the closed door as though if she stared at it long enough it would become invisible. Her aged aunt stomped away, helping Darius who was making tea; something, he assumed they all needed in a situation like this. Meggie slipped off the arm of the wooden chair she sat on, and crept as well as anyone could creep in front of people to the door.

She looked over her shoulder; Doria gave her a warm smile, but didn't follow. Dustfinger had gone out into the yard with Roxana. She twisted the door knob, and entered the room.

Her new brother had stopped crying, the room was dark, and warm, as though fire had licked the room thoroughly. Resa was feeding him, while Mo sat by. He looked up when he noticed her little blond head poke in, and smiled. A welcoming smile.

Mo patted his lap for Meggie to sit, as she closed the door behind her. Carefully, she walked in, and sat down upon her father's lap, "Oof, you're getting heavy! It's a good thing we have a new little one, my lap might get lonely."

Mo- Mo always made jokes when he was upset or nervous, Meggie bet on the latter in this situation, giving birth in this world without medicine must've crossed his mind as a dangerous thing more then once during Resa's pregnancy.

"What do _you _think of the name Andrew?" Mo asked, once he saw that he got a smile out of Meggie. Before she could reply, Resa spoke up in a soft weak voice, "I'm sure he'll have a thousand and one names by the time he can talk."

Andrew. Meggie looked at her brother, yes, he looked like an Andrew. Maybe, it was hard to tell when you're all pink and puffy what your name should be. Andrew...he would never know what a car looked like, but he would know just the right way to make a fairy fall asleep. Nor would he know what toothpaste tasted like, but know how tender boar is. He would be a rightful citizen, Meggie thought thoughtfully, born to foreigners of this written land.

"And," Meggie let the name settle on her tongue. She liked that, "That's a nice name. Maybe he'll be able to read things out of books like us, Mo- or draw like you, Resa," She looked at Resa's tired face, tired but happy, so happy, "Or maybe he'll be able to sing, or dance in the clouds-"

Mo laughed at her enthusiasm, "Let's wait until he can walk first!" He gave her a soft push off his lap, and Meggie, taking the subtle hit, got down, "Now go make sure Elinor stays out of Roxana's way before we have battle on our hands."

She gave Mo a keen nod, opening the door, "Oh! Darius is making tea, would you like any?"

Mo returned her nod, though she was pretty sure he wasn't listening. She shut the door quietly behind her.

_Andrew- how many names would you have by the time he was Mo's age, even mine?_ Meggie thought. He already had more then one; Bluejayson that's what they would call him, isn't that what they do with the children of famous heroes. She leaned against the door for a moment, before going towards the kitchen area where Darius was making tea, listening to Elinor talk animatedly about a rude man selling cabbages she had met earlier in the week.

"Oh, Meggie," She said, upon noticing her. She was wiping down a perfectly clean bowl in her frustration, "Is that Roxana character gone, or am I not allowed to see my grandnephew ever?"

Someone knocked on the door. "Oh, for heaven sakes!" Elinor exclaimed, putting the bowl down, "They know they can come in, can't they? Not that the door has a lock or anything on it!"

"I-I'll get it," Darius stammered, this whole birth giving had made him a bit jumping, and Elinior's mood wasn't helping any. He placed the old tea pot down, and headed to the front door, full expecting to see Roxana with her arms full, or Dustfinger, but, instead it was the old-tortoise faced writer, Fenoglio, who was looking back at the owled eyed Darius. One of those awful rainbow fairies was fluttering around his head, chattering eagerly. This one more red then most colours.

"A little birdie told me a new child was born in my world?" He inquired, knowingly, waving the rainbow fairy away, "I know they're not mine, but they do make better spies then glass men, faster and complain far less. More tamable than mine too, a little brainless. Can't improve upon perfection, I guess," He pulled out a thick piece of hair from a pouch attached by rope to his hip, the fairy snatched it up eagerly, and flew away, its mission accomplished. After their first winter, the remaining fairies of Orpheus' creation realized that they needed to prepare for winter as soon as possible and mimicked their blue cousins in the gathering of hair for their nests. Well, most of them anyway.

"Fenogilo!" Meggie cried the same time Doria cried "Inkweaver!" She ran to hug the old man so forceful that he was almost knocked over. Meggie was so full of joy; she just had to share it with everyone.

"Quiet!" Roxana called from outside. A timid giggle from the group floated through the room. They invited the old writer into the farm house.


End file.
